Traitor: Breaking Up is Hard to Do
by KhalaniK
Summary: This is an interpretation of the events in episode 18, "Tallgeese Destroyed." Zechs introspective with 13x6 implications.
1. Chapter 1

Title: Traitor (Breaking Up is Hard to Do) – Part 1/2

Author: Khalani

Rating: M for coarse language, 13x6 romantic implications

Warnings: This is an interpretation of events in episode 18 – "Tallgeese Destroyed." I've added, omitted, and modified some dialogue and details. OZ angst ahoy. Zechs introspective. No beta.

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Zechs Merquise has been assigned many titles in his short life: Valedictorian, Lightening Baron, Lightening Count, Lieutenant, Colonel, Perfect Soldier, Treize's Boy, Treize's Pet, Fairy, Killer of His Own Men, and, most recently, Traitor. Though it may seem paradoxical, this latest designation is really no less accurate than the rest.

Yesterday Tallgeese and I were picked up in Antarctica by the battleship Eurydice. After exhausting myself attempting to cast off the OZ search party sent especially to collect me, I surrendered. The three hours in battle with Heero Yuy had been grueling, and it was only a matter of time before my strength and stamina could no longer support my will. Surrender is an option I'd never actually considered before then. Always touted as the final resort, one notch below fighting to the death, it carries with it the quiet stigma of weakness. My submission may have amazed my enemies, but I've recently grown quite used to facing my faults.

Until yesterday, I'd never been handcuffed. I think it was a little much.

Now I'm being escorted by two lieutenants down a narrow, windowless corridor. Their lips are thin, the measure in their movements wavering, like two actors not entirely familiar with their script. They exchange glances, as if reaffirming – questioning – whether or not the blocking is correct. They're bringing me to Captain Demetrius on the bridge, presumably to await some official admonishment. My Final Admonishment.

My first real professional reprimand is also the most severe: court martial, with the sought sentence of death. Somehow, given the course of my life to date, it doesn't seem all that ironic. My first true crimes as a child – a sense of entitlement and an expectation of ease and consistency – were punished by the murder of my parents and the destruction of my home. I only beg sympathy for Milliardo Peacecraft, for the penalty was hardly equal to the crime. Zechs Merquise, on the other hand, will get everything he deserves.

Almost.

On the bridge, Captain Demetrius apologizes to me for the confined space. One of the lieutenants thrusts his sidearm towards the small of my back, as though I'll break loose at any moment and try to fist-fight my way off of a battleship staffed with a full compliment of armed and well-trained soldiers. He's fresh, a face I've never seen before. The captain remarks that zealous pistol wielding is not required and dismissed them. He gestures to a seat in front of a console and asks me to sit. Asks me. The look on his face says that he's labeled the scene absurd. He is mistaken, though; the only thing ludicrous about this scenario is the behavior that precipitated it. I've read the hastily drafted summons, the Judge Advocate General's signature a gleeful flourish at the bottom. I wonder how many people have been waiting for this.

I tabulate my crimes: going AWOL, deliberately interfering with an official investigation, asking my subordinates to do the same, grand larceny, and directing the reconstruction of an enemy weapon, which they failed to note was not because of scientific or professional curiosity, but because of an obsession with throwing a fifteen-year-old boy into the cockpit and forcing him to duel with me. Conspicuously missing from this list of charges: murder, insubordination, conspiracy, and fraudulent enlistment.

Where did this madness start? It had to have been Operation Meteor. Operation Meteor surprised me. Certainly, there were rumors that the colonies were planning retaliation. Treize even warned me of its inevitability – and I believed him like I always do.

As a military force, we were clearly underprepared, but as a soldier, I was ready, confident that my constitution was solid. After thirteen years of building Zechs Merquise from scratch, I could predict and direct his every reaction. It was effortless. After all, wasn't he just another stock character filling his designated space? Years of routine, solid direction, and reaffirmations of moral clarity had created the perfect habitat for Zechs Merquise and his righteous anger to thrive. After years of predictably exceptional performance, of impeccable obedience and near-faultless judgment, why would anyone expect anything less?

Then it entered my brain, a silent infiltrate. My first encounter with Gundam 01 was a catalyst, sparking to life a corner of my brain that was atrophied from lack of nurturing. A new player, a new challenge was all I thought it was at first. A distracted Zechs Merquise is not unusual. Whenever the latest mobile suit is all-go for testing, I insist on being pulled from current assignment to participate. This, Treize knows, is one way to keep me content. Like a good handler, he knows when to grant me a large berth and when to reign me back to his side. This isn't an occasion for resentment, for, as a commander, I know that it's capable management and not condescension that creates this dynamic between us. I'm sure that affection is also a factor. A call back to headquarters at once chafes and excites me.

The attack on Lake Victoria was also pivotal. What started as a textbook tangent became a full-blown diversion when Noin – so capable and willingly at my disposal – joined me. A dear friend and faithful ally, she abandoned her professional duties in Africa and has since worked tirelessly to accommodate my impulses. A dangerous succession of distractions has since followed, like when I took a break from Operation Daybreak to put a bullet in Daigo Onegell's head. Then another deviation, to Sanc, where the Beast overtook me and my hometown watched, silent. Since the day that I apologized to my father, the smell of moldy tapestries and wet granite still fresh in my sensory memory, I have lurched with a maniac's persistence down the greatest detour of my life. This path, electrifying in its recklessness, utterly frightening in the amount of control it affords me, has led me to this ship and this chair.

What is the name of this sickness? I've turned my back on the institutions and people that have afforded me constancy – mentors, subordinates, friends, routines, privileges. The neat partitions I've created in my mind – the places where I've sorted right from wrong, productive from futile, necessary from superfluous, friend from foe, and destiny from choice – are riddled with fissures. Moreover, their sanctity has diminished with my self assuredness.

What started as an itch is now a rampaging infection. Questions bombard me. What is my strength compared to Heero Yuy's? What is my resolve matched against his? Antarctica was the litmus test that exposed decisive limitations. It proved that the soldier Zechs Merquise has critically failed, bested on every level of import. He's tumbled from his apex, shamed by a kid who fights for the selfless and uncomplicated principle of freedom from occupation. Heero Yuy is what Zechs Merquise should have been.

The sickness has a name: Doubt. For Zechs Merquise, it may prove fatal.

I don't turn my head when the console beeps to life. Instead, I watch Captain Demetrius's brow furrow. He knows something and obviously has expectations of the man on the line.

I know who it is – it could be nobody else – but, even still, the sound of his voice makes my collar feel impossibly tight around my throat.

"I'm sorry to make you uncomfortable, Zechs."

I learn instantly from his tone that I'm dealing with General Treize Khushrenada, commander of OZ and the Specials, Romefeller's youngest and arguably most powerful member. I remind myself that this conversation is not only being overheard by Captain Demetrius and possibly Lady Une, it's also probably being recorded. For my trial, no doubt.

"Don't concern yourself, Your Excellency. I'm prepared to face court martial."

"As long as you continue to be a strong force for Romefeller, I see no need for a court martial."

"'Strong force'?"

I wonder if this is a tasteful euphemism for "destructive, jaded, insolent criminal entity." Part of me finds humor in this offer, but it's quickly lost because I also know that it's not for Romefeller's sake that Treize wants me to return to my post. He could never say that, though. Not like this. Not this Treize.

"Romefeller is concerned about the Gundams. They're the most powerful mobile suits on Earth. Would you continue to fight for me to defeat the Gundams?"

There's a sound behind Treize's voice, like linens drying in the breeze. It's less an interference than a soundtrack, like the gentle whoosh of a baby monitor. I think of the best way to phrase what I'm about to say. There is no way to really cushion or qualify it. Despite – or perhaps because of – the weight it carries, it rolls off my tongue easily.

"General, I'm sorry. I don't believe I can follow Romefeller's ideas any longer."

It's like shrugging off a boulder that I've carried with me most of my life. There is relief there, but also ache, cramping, a sudden chill of exposure and fear. I find myself vehemently hoping that Treize is not surprised by this. Surely, with all of his foresight and unmatched skill in reading people, he must have known this was coming.

Though it's probably no more than a second long, the pause seems like one of the longest of my life – almost as long as the one after the first time he told me he loved me. Only now it's his turn to be paralyzed.

"…What?"

In that instant, my fingers dig into my palms and I feel burning heat in my cheeks. How can a word spoken so calmly carry such gravity, like a tablespoon of black hole that sucks the resolve and composure right out of me? Flagging and hesitant, I'm overcome by defensiveness. I explain around the marrow of this conversation, which, suddenly, is the matter of my devotion to Treize.

"I've been fighting the Gundams out of personal feelings, and that's something that has no place in war. My battle with the Gundams is over."

"I see," he says, his tone recovered, even and smooth. "In that case, Zechs, sacrifice your life for OZ..."

There is somebody below – perhaps beyond – Zechs Merquise. Like Zechs, he's nineteen, his life stretched before him like the limitless expanse of an open field. Unlike Zechs, this young man has the potential and breeding to be an international leader, the eloquence to write lyrical and poignant speeches, and an unrepentant desire to make the world good again. He also possesses Zechs's fatal flaw: an unwillingness to play his assigned role.

"...A guilty verdict in court for your conduct would be detrimental to the organization…"

The most perfect day in this young man's life was spent stretched across a couch with his head in Treize Khushrenada's lap, feeding his two-book-a-week reading habit. Once, when he thought he wasn't being noticed, he turned his head and gently pressed his nose to the other man's shirt. The simple scent of fabric softener on lightly ironed white cotton reminded him that they were alone, together, with no accoutrements of their occupations and no identities but their true ones. Fingers ran through his hair and he smiled. They both smiled.

"…but if you died an honorable death…

This memory sustained him when his persona alienated him. It gave him hope of one day shucking off Zechs Merquise like a husk, burying him forever with his wretched mask and brutal agenda. If there was any compassion in the universe, he and the man he loved would live through the war and move to the countryside. They would tend endless rows of grains and vegetables and grow old together, relishing each moment spent in peace and contentment. These are the types of things that teenaged war-orphaned soldiers fantasize about.

"…soldiers would mourn and develop a stronger will to fight. Naturally, the higher powers in Romefeller would be satisfied. The name Lightening Count will live on as a legendary hero…."

Is this person Milliardo Peacecraft? I can't say for certain.

"…That would be wonderful…."

A hiccup in the metronome tells me that he's not quite convinced of this. Gears are grinding. The massive machine he has engineered – propelled by revolutions, assassinations, battles, and audacious hopes – is highly sensitive. Every component requires a watchmaker's attention to detail. The smallest distraction or indecision carries with it the grossly disproportionate risk of ruining everything. Even worse is the very real possibility of a malfunction that would spare the General, but only at the sacrifice of the Man. I think…I've always suspected that this is the machine's inevitable course….

"…Your death would have that much value to it. If you died, you would be free…."

If Zechs Merquise is dead, there can be no more Zechs and Treize, Colonel and General, subordinate and superior. No more friends, no more colleagues. In a brief moment of preternatural clarity, I see the rightness of it. Zechs Merquise, after all, was modeled on Treize Khushrenada – it's only appropriate that his life comes to an end at the hand of his idol.

"Farewell, Zechs Merquise."

A response dies in my throat when I hear the telltale signal that ends all OZ communications. The bridge is completely silent until Captain Demetrius performs a tactical throat-clearing. He is gazing at a nearby GPS monitor, trying to act disinterested. We're in the South Pacific, off the coast of New Zealand's northern island.

"In three hours, 50 Aries and 20 Cancer units will attack this ship." He looks down at me. "My crew's currently making repairs on the Tallgeese. Chief Meiser's directing everything. They will be finished within the hour."

I'm not sure how they negotiated Meiser's pardon in light of his willing participation in the reconstruction of Gundam 01. I vaguely wonder if he gave them information about me and just as vaguely note that I don't really care one way or another.

I can't believe that this whole farce was planned. All bases covered, all contingencies considered. Typical Khushrenada bullshit. If Treize thought that it would end this way, why did he seem so damned surprised? This sudden anger is compelling, a symptom of Zechs raging against his execution and against the only person who can really hurt him.

I am ready for this fight.

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Concluded in Chapter 2


	2. Chapter 2

Title: Traitor (Breaking Up is Hard to Do) – Part 2/2

Author: Khalani

Rating: M for coarse language, 13x6 romantic implications

Warnings: This is an interpretation of events in episode 18 – "Tallgeese Destroyed." I've added, omitted, and modified some dialogue and details. OZ angst ahoy. Zechs introspective. No beta.

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The cockpit of the Tallgeese smells like old leather and motor oil, lending a richness and antiquity that makes the newer units seem cold and antiseptic. Temporary. I feel at ease in the Tallgeese despite its legacy of pain and death. Otto died in this seat. Countless test pilots sustained permanent physical injuries. On my first flight I had a cardiac episode and broke three of my ribs. And yet, it welcomes me like an old friend. This is her lure.

Twenty minutes ago, the crew of the Eurydice boarded a different ship bound for the Okinawa base. Before departing, Captain Demetrius informed me that the attack force would be manned by some of the remnants of the Alliance, whose sole purpose was to garner favor with Romefeller by destroying me. This will definitely work in my favor. One thing that Zechs Merquise can always muster is rage against the Alliance, especially during his last stand.

I'd say that the Lightening Count put on quite a final show for the soldiers on the Eurydice. Like donning a habit or full battle rattle, Zechs Merquise slipped right back into character after being issued his sentence. His aura glowed no less brightly than usual when he stepped off of the bridge. No longer a prisoner of OZ, he once again became an icon, a symbol, an immortal phantasm. Soldiers on the ship cleared the way for him, crisply saluting their champion, hoping to be acknowledged and remembered.

And Zechs saluted back, the smallest of smirks on his face a familiar sight, his composure telling the lie of limitless strength, confidence, and grace. This is the image that will be burned into their brains, feeding them in their times of doubt and anxiety, inoculating them against dread and thoughts of failure. In this, Treize will get what he wants. I couldn't refuse him one last request.

There is a distinct unease that immediately precedes the first shot in any battle. It presents itself as a tickle at the back of the neck, butterflies in the stomach, or a minute hitch in the chest. It is a secondary sense that we share with other animals, not at all specific to soldiers. I felt it as a child before Sanc was attacked, just as I feel it right now. I clear my head and reflexively hold my breath.

Right on cue, my cockpit lights up and a staccato series of beeps informs me that this ship is about to be assailed by 25 air-to-surface missiles and 10 torpedoes. The coordination of it is something to behold; I don't think I've ever been simultaneously targeted by 35 explosive projectiles. I have just enough time to gun the thrusters and propel myself above what is about to become an unholy fireball.

My hands are shaking.

The first wave of the assault comes from the Aries' chain rifles. Though the Aries is a top-of-the-line unit, the force of each shell is not enough to pierce even the first few layers of my armor. Each shot rattles a few compartments in the cockpit, but everything holds together. I waste no time with my dober gun and instead pull out my beam saber.

It's very difficult to grasp just how large this weapon is. The pillar of light is nearly as tall as the flight-configured Aries, thick and concentrated enough to slice through the suit like it's no more than a child's toy. Like lemmings running off of a cliff, unit after predictable unit rushes towards me. Some fall to pieces and plunge into the ocean, others explode as I pierce their reactor. I wonder if I should expect anything more than these clumsy charges. I find OZ's gross underestimation of my abilities mildly insulting.

Fittingly, insult evaporates when my screen lights up dramatically. Multiple incoming. A finely targeted barrage of missiles is fast approaching me from all sides, leaving me only one way to go: up. My still-sore ribs protest fervently at the surge of g-forces as I push the thrusters as hard as I can. I climb sharply, my instincts fighting my brain over what to do next.

A pilot rarely prays to God in the heat of battle. Instead, he prays to his mechanic or his engineer. If he knows the name, he might even pray to the inventor of the suit. Right now I'm praying that Howard Keene designed the Tallgeese to survive the type of movement I'm about to attempt. It's bold and desperate, and I'm not even certain that the laws of physics will allow me to stay conscious during it. I quickly calculate my odds and decide that I can't afford not to try.

But before I can execute, my whole suit is jarred roughly. An Aries unit has physically grabbed onto me from behind, stalling my engines and effectively turning us into one giant stationary target. If that wasn't enough, another unit latches onto me from the front in a pincher move. I am suddenly intensely aware of my mortality and of the very real fact that I am about to die.

I think of my first battle with Heero Yuy, how I used a similar move on him. I then think about my fifth birthday party when I fell out of a tree and got a concussion. I think about the waste of life in this battle. I think about my last performance review – good marks all around.

Life doesn't flash before my eyes in the face of imminent death. Instead, there is a lightning-fast succession of thoughts, disconnected, in no particular order and of no particular significance. I don't see my father's face or hear Treize's voice. Death, in more regards than one, is not romantic like that. I know because it's about to overtake me.

The explosion is unlike anything I've experienced before - a massive, near-deafening boom followed by a terrifying wall of shrapnel and MS parts flying against the exterior of my suit. I'm fully stunned and then I'm dead weight, falling, falling.

When Tallgeese hits the ocean, I'm violently thrown against the back of my seat. I hear a sharp crack, like the sound of an ice sheet breaking under a load. Warm liquid runs down the side of my nose from my head. My first thought, irrational, is that the cracking was my skull and the pain was from a shard of bone breaking through my forehead.

But I'm not dead.

In fact, after I pull myself together and check my monitors, I find out that the overall integrity of the suit has barely been compromised. One of the legs has been significantly damaged, but it's nothing that will keep me from fighting. One of my engines is showing red across the board, crushed by that single intrepid Aries.

This, however, is the least of my problems. The Tallgeese weighs nearly ten tons and is not designed for buoyancy. Cancers swarm like flies around a carcass. When their torpedo bays open, I'm pretty sure I'm fucked. My hands tighten around the thrusters and I clench my jaw. I curse Treize aloud. This is not how I want to die.

My sensors show the approach of an enormous underwater object. Exponentially bigger than my suit, my computer identifies it as an OZ sub transport. The little Cancers part to let it continue on its collision course with Tallgeese. I brace myself and get ready to grab onto the rounded bay door – it's the only thing I can think to do. What else can I do in this impossible situation? I figure that at least we'll be moving away from the pack of glory-hungry mobile suits.

The impact is brutal and I hear myself growl against the strain on my body. Again I hear that gritty crackling sound. I know now what it is, and in those moments of realization, the cosmically ridiculous nature of the coincidence doesn't escape me. I'm then distracted by a distinct shift in my orientation, and I can't believe the cause--

Impossibly, idiotically, insanely, the submarine angles upward towards the surface. I can feel myself slipping off of the curved hull, but hold on just long enough to break the surface. With another prayer to nobody in particular, I throw my entire body weight into the thrusters. The verniers scream to life – even the damaged engine is functioning at 60 percent thrust capacity. Now flying meters ahead of the breeching submarine, I fire up my beam saber and aim right between the swift-approaching bay doors.

The behemoth, towering and grand, is being sliced in two. It is utterly surreal. Like with the Aries, the thing bursts into an explosive super inferno when the ship's immense fusion reactor meets the hail of Minovsky particles emitting from my weapon. My head smacks against the head rest….

…and it happens – one huge chunk of my mask breaks off, hitting my shoulder and landing on the floor of the cockpit with a metallic clank. I cock my head ever so slightly and the other pieces follow; shards of super-strong specialty alloy fall onto my lap and to my feet.

My naked eyes land on the monitor, the flaming wreckage of the submarine barely visible through the thick, black cloud of smoke it is producing. This is the first time I've ever seen the Tallgeese like this, unobstructed. I feel deliriously alive and, like a child, I take in everything I can – the sound of the fried electrical system popping and hissing, the redness of the blood on my nose, the smell of burnt fuel and sweat.

Is this what Treize meant when he said I would be free?

I understand him now, in a way I never did before. This is his way of loving me, by destroying the facade that has choked nearly all of the goodness out of me. In this moment, I want desperately to thank him…but I can't.

I can't thank him because in the same fell swoop that killed Zechs Merquise, Treize also killed Us. I can't be sad about it, either. It's too unreal, too impossible for me to comprehend. Something so constant and absolutely crucial in my life can't be obliterated so casually. Maybe after my adrenaline subsides, maybe after I sleep and wake up and process the reality of what's just happened…maybe then I'll fall apart.

Or maybe I won't. I have no idea what kind of person I really am – or what I'm really capable of.

Most of the remaining mobile suits are holding back, shocked by my massive display of destruction. The Lightening Count might stay to annihilate them all, but I couldn't care less about this fight. I can't let this gift of freedom, this second chance, be wasted on these pandering Alliance idiots. So I do what survivors do: gather my wits and beat a hasty retreat. All directions seem equal in my post-combative, indecisive mind, so I fly east. A few Aries units struggle to pursue, but Tallgeese outstrips them easily. She may be damaged, but she's still the queen of speed.

After flying for God knows how long, things start to seem…not quite right. The words, statistics, coordinates, and visuals on my monitors are bending, swirling, blurring in and out of focus. Dark spots begin to pepper my sight and the cockpit starts shifting in unnatural ways. At one point, I look into my external monitor and see the moon liquefy and drip onto the sea below. It gradually occurs to me that I haven't slept in three days. I heard once that you're considered legally insane after being awake for this long. I laugh softly, a sound that's creepy and unfamiliar to my ears. I've been reborn as a crazy person.

I force myself to try to focus on my altimeter, which I think is plummeting. My heavy, unskilled hands miraculously guide the suit to the nearest patch of dry land. Impatient with exhaustion and thoroughly rattled, I set the suit down hard. The left leg buckles and we tumble face-first to the ground. I can't open the door and get out of my harness fast enough. I think I'm hyperventilating.

My legs, quivering with weakness, threaten to give out the moment they hit dry land, but I stagger forward. I see something ahead, between the twin creeping darkness looming from my peripheral vision.

I know I'm having a full-blown hallucination when the line of palms in front of me collapses, each trunk lengthening along the ground. I watch calmly, swaying like a drunkard, as though this sort of thing is quite typical. The downed trunks become the straightest rows of green banked by the blackest earth. Crouching there is a young, handsome man digging up a head of kale with a hand trowel. He looks up at me. He sweeps reddish-brown bangs out of his eyes with the back of his gardening glove. There's a smudge of dirt on his cheek. His smile is brilliant.

I collapse. Lying there, somewhere between reality and a dream, I feel the cold dew soaking into my uniform. Before I pass out, I have one last fleeting thought…

…of Treize, his boots covered in muck, the ass and right leg of his riding pants filthy from being kicked half way across the stable by an unbroken horse. He's fine, he says, and I know it. He looks ridiculously happy. He sees me in clean clothes and grabs me around the waist. I tell him that he smells like manure and he laughs. Kisses me. I kiss back. I mean it. I want to tell him just how much, but I know he knows.

He knows.

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The End


End file.
